


Redress

by Hey_Pretty



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Angst, Gen, Nothing explicit, Nudity, Planet Scar Syndrome | Geostigma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26438197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hey_Pretty/pseuds/Hey_Pretty
Summary: Snapshot of Rufus Shinra immediately after being cured of Geostigma.
Kudos: 11





	Redress

**Author's Note:**

> Over a decade of not writing anything, I finally produced a dribble-drabble that I'm somewhat comfortable with sharing. A sort of warm-up, if you will. Hope it's not too rough. >.<

They talked excitedly around him, after watching his Geostigma disappear in the rain, but he remained silent. He managed to play Kadaj but was anxious the entire time. His muscles were sore from the tension and the adrenaline from jumping off a building left him spent. He allowed himself a tired sigh of relief, loud enough for the Turks to quiet their enthusiasm and stare at him.

"Let's go home."

It was not an order. It held no weight of command. It was a simple wish. He was exhausted. The recent events had worn him out and he did not want to be out in the open any longer. 

Once back at Healin Lodge, Rufus immediately ordered the Turks away. He locked the door behind him as he walked into his room, leaving them and the wheelchair behind. It was finally over. The nightmare. He had done it. His plan worked, for the most part, and he was healed. However, the huge victory left him feeling hollow. He frowned and looked down at his hands. The skin there was pale and thin, plenty of veins, but not a trace of Geostigma. He moved his sleeve up to his arm. It was more of the same. 

His clothes were soaked. He pulled off his white coat and let it fall to the floor. He quickly unfastened the black vest as well and let it slide off his arms. His fingers shook as he unbuttoned the white shirt next. The wet clothes hadn't necessarily bothered him, but now he felt an urgency to be free of them. He tore the white shirt off hastily and it barely hit the floor before the same shaky fingers were undoing the buttons for his black shirt. His whole body was shaking. 

The black shirt was finally gone. The wet clothes now lay discarded in a pile on the floor. He stood there, completely shirtless, but still covered in old bandages. There was a bandage around his right hip, just peeking above the hem of his pants. He quickly undid the button and zipper while kicking off his boots and his pants fell around his feet easily. He stepped out of them and pulled off his socks, leaving only his underwear. He pushed them down as well and kicked them to the other pile of clothes. 

He started to tear at the bandages around his neck, chest, arms, waist, legs, and feet; gritting his teeth, not being at all gentle or taking his time. He had enough of the itchy, useless dressings. They were never able to fully staunch the ichor or keep him held together. He lifted his foot to undo the last bandage and yanked too hard, losing his balance. He extended his right hand towards the wall and saved himself from falling over.

He found himself in front of the full-length mirror. Hand still braced against the wall, he eyed his reflection, completely free of ill-fitting clothes and annoying bindings. He took inventory over his entire body, having memorized each wound. His eyes moved quickly to each spot, eyebrows raised and lips parted in disbelief at how each one was now gone. There was not a single wound or bruise or even scar left behind. His left hand reached up and alighted on his chest. He moved over it slowly, the largest area of where the Geostigma had been. It was perfectly smooth, clean, and creamy white, not even a trace of the agony he endured for months. 

Suddenly, his throat dried up and his breath hitched, a tightness spread in his chest, as the weight of something unknown bore down upon him. He used both hands to brace against the wall on either side of the mirror. The face reflected at him was of sharp lines and sunken skin. Dark bags under his eyes seemed never-ending. His usually striking blue orbs appeared dull. Brittle, blonde hair hung in front of them as always. His lips were dried and cracked from a terrible habit of biting them with worry. The entire sight startled him. 

He attempted to gulp the overwhelming feeling down as his eyes narrowed and jaw set, but his body was shaking again. Heart racing, he backed away from the mirror and fell to the floor on his knees. His breath came quick and shallow as he hunched over, hands on the floor before him. He felt like screaming. Something was trying to claw its way out of him. He bit his lip and beat the floor in front of him with his fist. Obstinate tears stung at his eyes. 

All the sickness. All the fear. All the torture. All the pain. It was gone. It was over. It was all finally over. So many emotions filled him up all at once. Relief. Grief. Anxiety. Resentment. Rage. Loneliness. He felt full of so many things but somehow completely empty at the same time. He resisted the urge to cry out. Instead, with a deep, shuddering breath, he composed himself enough to crawl over to the side of his bed. He leaned against it, eyes closed, and focused on breathing. 

A part of him wished someone was there to hold him; someone to stroke his hair, to rub his back, or to squeeze his hand. Cold and vulnerable, too aware of absolutely nothing, or no one, touching his skin, he brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms about himself. He brought his head forward and turned to one side to rest on his knees.

Tired eyes stared at nothing in particular and his eyelids felt heavy. He recalled a distant memory of laying his head in his mother's lap, her cooing down at him as she stroked his hair and cheek.

_"I love you my beautiful, sweet boy."_

A sad smile crept upon his face and he shut his eyes in fond remembrance.

He jolted awake as a sharp rapping came at the door and an urgent voice called out. 

"Sir! Please open up!" 

He sat up slowly and waved a hand groggily towards the door, to dismiss whoever was on the other side, as if they could see. He must have fallen asleep and lied down on the floor at some point. It did his neck no favors as he turned his head to work out the kink.

"Sir! We will beat down this door!"

Rufus rolled his eyes and sighed. Reno could be dramatic. 

"Reno."

The banging stopped and silence fell on the other side.

"Sir!"

"Leave me be."

He could hear some shuffling and a bit of whispering. He smirked. The Turks were so restless without him giving directives or a mission afoot. 

"Are you okay, sir?" 

Elena this time.

 _Are you okay?_ What kind of question was that? Was he okay? He hadn’t determined that much yet. Rufus shook his head.

"I'm fine. Just need to shower."

"Do you need any help, sir?" 

He grimaced. They were used to him being weak and unable to do most things by himself. He hated it. While a nurse typically attended to him, there had been plenty of moments where one was unavailable and a Turk or two had to step in. To see him weak, in pain, and varying stages of undress, it was near worse torture than what Mütten had inflicted. He would rather take a fist to the face than a Turk have to draw a bath or change his bandages. He needed to establish a new rapport.

"No."

He stood abruptly and used the bed to steady himself as he wobbled. A hand went to his head and he closed his eyes, an attempt to gain his bearings. He slowly opened his eyes and with a huff of renewed determination, he strode to the bathroom. He reached into the shower and turned the faucet to scald.

He planned on burning away the last two years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I would love to see feedback. Don't be afraid to comment.


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